Von Morrgarten
by Carthienes
Summary: I found this when clearing out my Old Hard drive, after loosing both my newer ones. Lacking anything better to post, I decided to share the tale of this faint unlife in the Old World...


Von Morrgarten

I awoke in the Garden of Morr. Quite how I got there I do not know, but there I was; staring up at the star-lit sky as clouds shrouded the moons. I arose at once, passing swiftly amongst the graves. My feet were bare on the frost-ridden grass, yet I felt only the cold in my heart. I could not have articulated any reason for it, but an intense sorrow dominated my soul, far more potent than any earthly frost.

I came, at length, to a gravel path that ran from the temple to it's gate, which I followed; passing soundlessly through the gate and heading for my own small village. For some reason I had felt it inappropriate to disturb the temple, though such was my sorrow that I paid scant heed to that detail.

Even at this early hour there were people in the street, going about their business, though I passed few. None paid me much attention, although some reacted to my presence as if to a disquieting chill; and one seemed to meet my eyes for a moment. It was the village priest, who promptly hurried on, seemingly infused with the tiniest fraction of my own unquenchable sorrow.

I found my hut to be closed against my intrusion, dark and uninviting, though I did not try the door. My wandering feet brought me instead to the pond in the village green. It's clear, cool waters began to ice over as I watched, yet I continued to stare until the frost had completely consumed the moons.

They shone through the pearly shadow of my mangled face.

* * *

I haunted the village for three months before He came. During that time the sun always hurt, and I could not bring myself to seek sanctuary in any shrine or temple. Twice a wandering priest passed through, and I could not bring myself to face them. The whole village celebrated a birth in the family of my closest friend, and cheered when the harvest came in, yet none of it touched me. There was nothing to distract me from the agonizing sorrow of my existence. I noticed everything that happened, but distantly. I was no longer a part of their lives; merely a frigid observer drowning in my own sorrow.

All that changed with the arrival of He Who Slakes A Crimson Thirst. It was night when I noticed a change in the air, a lingering aroma of malice such as I had never before encountered. It mattered not, for the joys of discovering the new had long since been lost to me. Slowly the malice grew as I drifted around the village green, and even the mortal villagers began to notice when tendrils of frosted fog began to drift across the ground. So did I, though I did not consider it to be important. It did not matter, could not matter. Nothing mattered to me. The fog grew, and from it's billowing depths He emerged. Tasteful black from neck to toe, his elegant attire was unsullied by the filth of the world. There was power, terrible power, in His gaze; and also a suffering that seemed almost to compare with my own, though He hid it well. His cold lips moved, and that terrible power radiated out from Him. The fog expanded rapidly, trickling over the cobblestones to encompass the entire village, and I felt it fill me with strength and weakness. I could not have refused it, even had I wanted to. The mist flowed through me, weaving a form of icy vapour for me to inhabit, one which almost matched the chill that still blighted my soul. Even as my new body formed, however, the village priest came running through the mist, a silver icon clenched in his fist. With brave words he defied Him, though all could hear fear trembling in his voice. This 'Foul Fiend' sighed, twitched the icon from the priest's fingers, and instructed him to return to his prayers.

The priest cringed under the lash of His voice, the icon falling to the ground as He added His hope that the genuine fiends would leave the village alone, as there was little protection to be offered by such trinkets. Then He strode past the trembling priest and out of the village. I trailed in his wake, along with a dozen other spirits whom I barely noticed. Behind us came the shambling bodies of our dead, my own cadaver among them. I did not recognise it or look for it. I simply followed Him.

* * *

He led us to an army of dead things that had been gathering nearby. Thus were we added to His horde as it receded into the mountain. People may have tried to follow us, but I remember them not. Freezing nights became burning days, yet none touched my frozen soul. With a tormenting sorrow as my perpetual companion I followed Him through the mountains till He came across a green army that threatened to spill over the mountains and slaughter those beyond. He was determined that they would halt here.

That night a green moon glowered in the sky, and He ordered our attack. The crude walls of the foe's encampment posed no barrier – I saw myself fly through hide tents without pause. My arms reached for green, sleeping forms, draining both heat and life from the enemy yet remaining as cold and dead as ever. Before long His hordes of living dead burst among the foe, slaying many as they slept and rousing others to confront the outcry. Crude weapons were raised against His minions, but every fallen body was another recruit to His force. Several creatures tried to fight me, though their efforts would have been laughable had I any mirth remaining. The blows of iron cleavers and wooden clubs meant nothing to the frozen mists of my new form, and any would-be attacker inevitably ended up cold and lifeless, another warrior for Him.

Dawn broke on the conquered encampment as He slew the green chieftain. With a word he commanded it to rise, with another to attack, but the fight was won. Seeing their leader dispatched, the others lost heart and tried to flee, only to be dragged down by the bodies of their former allies. Words of power echoed across the battlefield, eerily reminiscent of the words that had drawn me from my former home. At His command the dead rose to swell His force, and I felt that He was not finished with His self-appointed task.

* * *

I drifted across the remains of the battlefield, my task over for now, and though the sun burnt my pallid form it could not warm me. I noticed a disturbance, however, an intangible sensation that managed to draw me closer. Though I barely felt it I had nowhere else to go, nothing left to do. A spider's thread would have enough pull to deflect me from my absent path. This pull was different, however. It vaguely recalled the call of the One Who Slakes His Crimson Thirst, though it was but a crude mockery, tainted and debased. I floated closer, and perceived a horror that almost had the power to touch me despite my horrible state.

A mortal man stood there, mimicking His powerful arts with all the grace of a crippled toddler. He grasped strange energies without understanding, and wove crude controls without regard for the corruptions tainting his remaining flesh. A tiny group of spirits danced on his strings, forced to debase themselves for his cruel pleasure. I could do nothing to stop it, but I felt Him watching through my eyes and knew that it mattered not.

Power flooded the area as He approached, overwhelming the paltry imitations of the meagre mortal. He approached that mortal, casually claiming dominance over the abused souls as the abuser trembled in fear. He did not voice His anger, though. He did not approach with violence. He spoke, and his voice echoed with unmatched power, as he spoke of the failure of the one before Him. He spoke of His disappointment, but he also spoke of redemption. He spoke of a chance for an immortal life, a valuable life, which offered the chance to redeem any mistake.

Unhesitatingly, unquestioningly, the little mortal accepted His offer. As the disappointing failure grasped His hand his tiny eyes glowed with greedy desires, with unfulfilled hopes, before disintegrating in their sockets. A feeble scream emerged from his throat as the flesh sloughed from his skeletal frame, bursting in places to reveal the pale pink beneath. New sight glowed in his empty sockets as the promised immortality took hold, and those sockets glowed with hated obedience. Forever denied the embrace of his flesh, the little imitator's immortal life would not be quite as pleasant as he had hoped, though a good deal more valuable to Him.

Turning from His task, now complete, His vision and mine crossed for the briefest instant. In that instant I could see that His existence was as tortuous as my own, drowning in a depth of sorrow no physical symptom can emulate. I could also see that He had long known this, and understood my fate far better than I ever could. Then the moment passed, and He returned to his self-appointed task. As His army marshalled itself for departure the incident faded into my forgotten past like any other, though I never forgot that He knew.

* * *

We travelled deeper into the mountains, following a path that He alone understood. He paused only once, briefly, to slake His Crimson Thirst upon a poor creature that had been straying in the wrong direction. With that one personal disaster averted, he journeyed on. We followed, trailing in His wake like a deathly cloak. The cadaver of a carrion-eater tried to impede His progress once, but thereafter it flew overhead, scouting the landscape for him.

Green-skinned creatures tried to bar our path, or else where frightened into fleeing through us, but few of them survived our encounter. He saw to that. In time He led us to a ruined tower that radiated stability and echoed with a macabre purpose. The landscape through which we had travelled was barren, and for once I was the most lively thing in sight. Not that I was the only thing in sight, of course. The Dead stretched as far as the eye could see.

How many years was I bound to that place? I know not, for just as each moment blurred into each other, the passage of time all but lacked any meaning. Several times the land was assaulted by the green tide, and once by Vermin. Many lesser bands attempted to assault or bypass our position as well, with about as much success. The tower grew tall under His eye, and the unceasing labour of dead flesh, but never threw off it's decaying aura of ruin. Any Dead within the wasteland knew the tower as home, and Him as Master.

Twice his mastery was challenged, by others of his ilk, yet any success was fleeting. Thrice his command over my soul was challenged, but always returned. My existence, for I could never call it living, fell into a pattern of mindless repetition, halting invaders before they could break through. Break through to what, I never knew.

* * *

In time, it came to pass that another army came, this time from an unexpected direction. Indeed, this force came from where all others seemed desperate to reach. A bare handful of magicians accompanied them, but every unit had it's priest, and their faith shone with a rare sincerity. The came with an impressive siege train, prepared for far more resilient foes or powerful fortifications, though their route was unfortified, and our resilience in number more than body.

He offered them a rare chance, conciliatory words and diplomatic mien, yet they turned him down. No sooner had their army formed up than it attacked, Knights and guns biting deep into our rotting ranks. Yet the Dead seemed numberless, many falling only to rise again, and even our foes' casualties swelled His force. Once battle was truly joined there was no turning back, and His hesitance turned to cold fury.

As the hotheaded mortals fell upon the lifeless hordes they responded with a cold logic and mindless brutality. As He led a decapitating strike, I was to fall upon their gunners. I saw myself fly across the field with the winds, falling upon the hapless gunners to drain heat and light from their forms. Bullets tore through my misty form, wreathing my insubstantial body in wisps of smoke as fire licked at ice. Yet for all their weapons burning fury, they might as well have never bothered.

As more men fell before my callous assault, an armoured priest emerged from among them. Driven by his will to confront the man, my own reluctance paled. Insubstantial hands of fog reached out, yet he fended them off with glowing words. His cruel words grew ever stronger as he chanted, defying my lifeless approach. Eventually the warm glow overwhelmed my form, which wept. Even as my soul remained emotionless and frigid, my body wept itself to tears.

* * *

I awoke in the Garden of Morr. Quite how I got there I do not know, but there I was; staring up at the star-lit sky as clouds shrouded the moons...


End file.
